Double Edge Sword- by Quatre Raberba Winner
by Lauren Ashleigh
Summary: Go behind the headlines in the much anticipated autobiography from one of the most contreverisal people of our times! "Maxwell said it best with his summary, "The boy who risked it all to fight a war not his own." we can all learn from Winner's words."~ N
1. Introduction

Introduction  
  
By Duo Maxwell; Reporter for TIME  
  
I first met Quatre out on the battlefield in Afghanistan. The second I met him I knew he was a unique kid. Every day I thought I had seen the depths of his courage and stamina, just to see him out do himself again.  
  
Quatre is definitely a different class of person. From being raised in the upper-class world we all crave to be in, to denouncing it all to fight for the freedom of a people he didn't even belong too. He fought though adversity, and faced the greatest foe he ever had: his own father.  
  
He taught me the most important lesson I ever learned when we were out in Afghanistan: "Never loose hope, you don't know who might need it tomorrow." How many times I have said that to myself, reminding myself not to give in.  
  
It is my sincere hope that everyone can learn just half as much as I did from Quatre Winner, and that the story of his life, and the struggles he has had to endure will inspire everyone to get out there and be a better person, like he did for me. 


	2. Chapter One: The Early Years

Double Edge Sword By Quatre Raberba Winner  
  
(Ghost written by Lolo Winner)  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing, but in this fiction I do own most everything. Everything in this fiction is based on actual advent as well.  
  
Warnings: This fiction is AU (if you couldn't tell by the intro) Takes place in out rimes.  
  
Chapter One: Early Years  
  
There is a lot to me that most people don't know, a lot my family doesn't even know, and even more that I don't know. One of these things is that I was to be a twin. My mother was unable to support both of us, however, and my little brother died when we were only a few months a long--a sacrifice so that I could live.  
  
I didn't even know this for a long time; not until I was helping to pack after my father's death did I discover my mother's old journal in the far back corner of one of the closets. I was astonished when I read her words. Her fluid cursive expressed great joy when she discovered she was pregnant; and even greater joy when she learned she was carrying twin boys. I read as her joy turned to sorrow as my brother was miscarried. Somehow, even though she had lost a child, she didn't express anger towards God, but praised him for sparing my life. I couldn't understand how she stayed devoted.  
  
Since she had miscarried my brother the doctors began to watch her nearly religiously. It wasn't long before they gave her an ultimatum: abort me or die. Her words on the day she was confronted with this news were distorted in some places--in circular blemishes of rippled paper and smeared ink were where he tears had fallen. I found myself adding my own salty pools to the pages.  
  
Do you know how hard it is for a son to read his mother's decision to die for him? Never once did she even consider an abortion. Even more surprising is that not once did she curse God for bestowing this fate on her, especially when she was to bear an heir. I guess only a missionary can have that sort of resolve.  
  
She passed away only minutes after my birth. Only five minutes old and I was already responsible for the deaths of the two people closest to me. Sadly, they weren't the last.  
  
I was born April 23 1973 on an unseasonably cold day for Saudi Arabia. Then again- how many places call the high seventies unseasonably cold for spring? I guess only in the desert.  
  
I am not wholly Arabian, in fact I am more like a quarter. My mother was of French decent, but was born in California in the United States. Her family was missionaries who went to Saudi Arabia to convert the Muslims to Christianity. She didn't count on falling in love with a man from the very religion she evangelized against. Her family naturally disapproved of the marriage. So did my father's family. I take it they had some nice girl all lined up for him to marry. They were young though, and married without either ones' parents knowing. After that my grandparents had to accept the idea that they had wed, and couldn't do much against it.  
  
Perhaps my mother thought that by marrying him she could convert him. That never happened however. She also couldn't force his heritage out of him. She was stupid to think that she would be the first and last of his wives. He acquired four more before she died. She didn't mind though- she truly loved him.  
  
My father was a bit of an odd-ball in the Arabian community as well. His mother was Arabian and his father a European mutt of mainly Italian decent. An Arabian mother and foreign father is almost unheard of where I grew up. Who knows how they got away with that one, maybe the same way as my parents did, and maybe that was why they were somewhat understanding of my parents' decision. Still, he was the first-born male, and still, he was heir to the Winner oil fortune my grandparents had created.  
  
My father, Amir Winner, expanded the oil reserves fortune he inherited, and was wealthy even by Saudi standards. He used some of the money to build roads in the rural areas of the peninsula and became very good friends with much of the parliament and even some of the Monarch's inner circle. He had so many high powered friends' in fact that when I was seven he was awarded the coveted position of Ambassador to the United States.  
  
  
"Daddy! Daddy!" I yelled as I ran up to my father. He turned from the full-length mirror, his assistants left at the wave of his hand. He picked me up as I nearly jumped in his arms. "I'm ready to go."  
  
He pretended to be confused, "Who said you were going?"  
  
"You did."  
  
"I certainly did not!"  
  
My eyes watered as my lower lip quivered, "But... you promised me."  
  
He began to laugh, "Stop with that look! Okay I'm sorry, yes you can go."  
  
My face brightened, "Yea!"  
  
"All right, let's have a look at you." He set me down on the floor. I stood as straight as I could as he looked over my tiny suit. He straightened the askew collar and rustled my hair. "Will you go tell Raad and your sisters that we are almost ready to go?"  
  
I nodded, "Yes father."  
  
"That's a good boy." He straightened and the attendants were on him once more, making sure that his suit couldn't fit him better.  
  
I galloped down the hall, "Emira! Caresse! Laziza! Irea! Jeanette! Moniet! Yvette! Bahie!..." I rambled off the names of my sisters whom still lived with us, "It's almost time to go!" They all called back either "okay" or "five more minutes."  
  
I ran downstairs and slid into the kitchen on my socks. After nearly falling I scrambled to my feet, "Raad my father wants you to get the car ready."  
  
"Yes young master." He left his late afternoon snack and headed for the garage, which housed my father's extensive car collection. Even at seven I was fascinated with the collection. If I was good, Raad let me play in the cars. I learned the names of my favorites: the Dino, the 507, the DB2, the Gull Wing, the Avanti. I followed him into the garage, "Can we take the Dino?"  
  
Raad laughed, "That ones' a little small young master."  
  
"Then can I drive it before we leave?"  
  
"I'm sure your father wouldn't mind if you took her out for a spin." He took the Ferrari Dino key off of its peg with the one for the Mercedes Limousine. He unlocked to door for the Dino first, one of my very favorites of all of my fathers valuable automobiles. He closed the door and headed for the Benz with both sets of keys.  
  
"Vvvvvvrrrrrooooooommmmmmmm Varrrrrrooooommmmmmmmm Rrrrrrooooooommmmm Vvvvrrrrrroooooommmmmm." I made car sounds as I sharply turned the wheel in my imaginary race. I was tempted to honk the horn, but I knew my father didn't like the sound, and it scared my sisters. I was able to resist the temptation to actually honk the horn, but that didn't stop me from imagining it. "Beep! Beep!" I yelled at the imaginary people.  
  
Moniet taped the glass of the window. I looked up from my drive. "Did father say you could do that?"  
  
"No, but Raad did." I stuck my tongue out.  
  
"Little boys shouldn't stick out their tongues. It's very unbecoming."  
  
"And women shouldn't argue with the master."  
  
Moniet opened her mouth, but shut it when she saw my father coming. "Alright Quatre your ride is over."  
  
"Five more minutes." I used the favorite phrase of my sisters.  
  
"And young heirs shouldn't argue with their fathers." He opened the door. I slid off the oiled leather seat and to the cool concrete floor. I couldn't argue with my own reason. Even at seven I knew that was true. I followed obediently to the limousine outside of the garage.  
  
We landed in the States hours later. A few men in black suits met us at the gate. They showed us to where the cars were parked. There were enough vehicles outside to accommodate our large family. I climbed in the limo with my father and the men. My sisters filled up the taxis behind them. I drifted off on the ride to our new home as my father discussed his agenda with one of the men. The last thing I heard before falling to sleep was, "Meeting with the President tomorrow."  
  
Life in America was one big adventure after another. There was always a party being held at our home, always a new function, always a new task. I started school there and continued with my fencing, piano and violin lessons. I leaned towards the arts, and was soon given the nickname `young prodigy' by my father's associates. I loved the attention. I would get to play whenever there was a ball or what not held at our home. Even the conductor of the National Symphony Orchestra remarked on how well I played the piano; so well that he made sure I was heard outside of our estate.  
  
I started making appearances when I was around eight. Having the conductor as my support made it possible for me to start out on my short-lived musical career. I started out as a fixture in the National Symphony Orchestra's program. I loved playing the difficult concertos as the violinists- sometimes fifty years my senior- played beside me. At the end of every evening I played I would get all of these remarks from guests and performers a like on how well I did.  
  
What exactly stopped my playing is hard to pinpoint. There were a lot of things going on that ultimately led to my decision to stop, one of which was the failing relationship with my father.  
  
When I was young I looked up to my father. He was my hero; who I wanted to be. Slowly over the years, however, I saw him differently. I didn't like how he treated his wives. I saw how other mothers were treated in the States, and I became angered that he didn't treat his the same way. I felt this same way with my sisters. Why should I be the heir when I had twenty-nine siblings ahead of me? That didn't seem fair to me. What really killed our relationship, however, was my mother.  
  
I knew that my real mother wasn't there. Since a young age I could tell that Batale, my father's second wife, wasn't my biological mother. It wasn't hard to see. She was full Arabian with her ebony hair and mocha skin. I, on the other hand, had locks the color of the afternoon sun and creamy skin. I loved Batale, she raised me like her own son, but I could tell that she was pained by the fact that I wasn't.  
  
It took a lot of courage to ask my father about my mother. I had developed a natural fear towards him. Everyone did. People fear power. Finally, when I was around ten, I got over the fear and let the curiosity sink in.  
  
I probably wouldn't have had to go to my father if someone else would of told me the truth first. No one would though. My sisters refused to speak of it, and I didn't have the heart to ask Batale. So the only other person for me to ask was naturally my father.  
  
I knocked on my father's study's open door. He was sitting at his desk on the phone. He waved for me to come in and continued to speak. He was speaking in an Arabic dialect I only heard when he was speaking directly to a member of the monarchy. "Yes, I'll contact you tomorrow about the meeting. Give my best to your father, goodbye."  
  
He hung up the phone and looked up at me with a smile on his face. "Afternoon Quatre."  
  
"Afternoon father." I replied as I took a seat in the overstuffed chair in front of his desk.  
  
"What's troubling you?" He asked.  
  
I took a deep breath and asked him outright what happened to my mother.  
  
He was stunned at my question, but tried to keep face. "She's out shopping with Emira, Laziza, and Moniet," he said.  
  
I shook my head, "Father, you don't have to pretend any more. I want to know what happened to my real mother."  
  
For some reason my father grew angry at my questioning. "What makes you think that Batale isn't your mother? Shame on you for even thinking that about her."  
  
"Father it's obvious. I look nothing like her or any of her daughters." I ran my hands though my hair, "Can you explain how I'm as blond as Irea or Adele, or why my eyes are as green as Frances's or Iva? Who is their mot--"  
  
He slammed his fists into the mahogany table and stood with fury, "Don't question me! I said that Batale is you mother and that is who she is. I don't want to hear another word about this! Got it!?"  
  
"But-"  
  
"I said not another word! Go to your room!"  
  
I stood and left quietly, but I didn't obey him. Instead of going to my room I went to Irea's. "Irea?" I asked as I knocked on her door.  
  
"Come in Quatre." I entered and closed the door behind me. She was lying on her bed with some 80's band playing on her new CD player.  
  
She looked up, "What's up little brother?" She asked.  
  
I didn't want to beat around the bush, "Irea who's our mother? And don't say Batale, I know that's not true."  
  
"I already told you that-"  
  
"Please, don't lie to me."  
  
She sighed, "You asked father didn't you?" I nodded. "I told you not to do that."  
  
"I know, but can you blame me for being curious?"  
  
She sat up against her backboard and patted her comforter, "Come over here." I followed and sat down on her bed. She wrapped her arms around me. "Now you have to promise me that you won't ever bring up mother again with father if I tell you think okay?"  
  
"I promise."  
  
She reached over and turned off the CD player just as the chorus of `Hit me with your best shot' by started to play. She drew in a deep breath and started. "Our real mother died when you were just a baby." She told me flat out.  
  
"Really?" I asked.  
  
She nodded, "You were named after her you know. Her name was Quatrina."  
  
"Why doesn't father like talking about her?"  
  
"It's hard for him, I think that he really loved her. He likes to pretend that she didn't even exist, it makes it easier for him."  
  
"How," I swallowed, "how did she... die?"  
  
Irea is quiet, unable to tell me the truth, "She..." She shook her head, "I don't remember how she died." She lied. She knew how she died, but she knew how I would take it if I were told that my mother died giving birth to me. I would turn it around into "I killed my mother."  
  
"Can you tell me about her Irea?" I asked.  
  
She smiled and stroked my hair. She began to tell me about how kind and pretty my mother was, and how she use to sing her to sleep when she was a baby. I dozed off as Irea told me about her, happily listening to every word.  
  
1 


End file.
